


Pioneer and Patron

by LilithAsmodeusBM



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Dark Harry Potter, Insane Harry Potter, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Master of Death Harry Potter, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Protective Slytherins, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherins Being Slytherins, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28911783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithAsmodeusBM/pseuds/LilithAsmodeusBM
Summary: There isn’t anything that he believes in. From the smallest to the biggest of all beliefs, of all the places in the world, he doesn’t believe.A trial and error fanfiction book based on Harry Potter.No profit is made on this.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. Before the Evident Beginnings

> There isn’t anything that he believes in. From the smallest to the biggest of all beliefs, of all the places in the world, he doesn’t believe.

He learned to cope with the losses of war. It was silly really. He thought that the end of the war meant the end of his problems.

The dark dictatorship maybe, but nothing more than that. Nothing else but that was solved. Because while facing the onslaught of war, and defending the castle, he forgot the most important thing. Wars don’t end in just one day.

* * *

There are cleanups. 

People are strewn on the courtyard, trailing towards the Great Hall. He couldn’t bear to see the remains of all those who partook in the fights, whether they be ally or foe. But there was no getting out of this folly. He must face the truth, and this shouldn’t be delayed.

But can someone just go in and present themselves as a hero?

It must be dreadful inside. The families of the fallen must be notified. As leader of the resistance, he should be there to record and sort the bodies.

Bodies. That’s all they are now. Cold, lifeless bodies.

They’ve lost their souls. They’re dead. Just bodies.

The inevitable has come. She, the most peculiar lady he’s known, has asked if he could speak to those inside the hall. He wishes to do so, yes. Yet, the feeling of dread and panic situate themselves within the deepest parts of his abdomen.

It is still inevitable.

So, he goes in, inside where the finale ended. Where everything was decided. Where everything came to its complete stop. Where he defeated the tyrant, the Dark Lord Voldemort.

He speaks.

He speaks to the affected. He does not sugarcoat the truth. He is articulate and beautiful. No one dares to stop his tirade of plans and arrangements for their futures.

This is because they believe. They believe that just as he led them through the battle, he will lead them through the castle’s reconstruction, and he will lead them till the end of his life.

He doesn’t believe he can. Still, he faces those that seek him and falls into deep conversations of rebirth.

Rebirth. Why does is it sound unfortunate, to be offered the chance at rebirth?

He survived all this time, but had he ever lived? Can he ever live?

Fame and fortune will soon follow him after he has left the school. Many people would do everything to be in the position that he is in.

But why is it nauseating? Why does the mere thought of glory disgust him?

Why doesn’t everything fall into place? The war is over. There isn’t supposed to be anything else that can cause such pain.

But why?

He doesn’t know why. He never knows why. Just how. He will always know how. He must always know how. Because if he doesn’t, then how will he prevail?

* * *

The glory will suffocate him soon enough. And when that time comes, he worries for his bleeding heart.

He could never harden it. He must always sacrifice. He must always be a martyr.


	2. Cluelessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An attempt at a second chapter. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.  
> Have a great day~!

> It was just like any other day. The sun was bright, and the skies were clear. 
> 
> If there was no battered castle, _no one would think that the greatest battle occurred_.

Although he promised to assist the others with the task of restoring the ruins of war, he felt as if anything and nothing could help with the irrationality that he feels.

Everything was **his** doing.

From the rubble scattered around the castle, to the dead within the Forest, it was all **his** fault.

There was no other explanation. If he weren’t the prophesied child, no one would have to go through what they have. He couldn’t comprehend the fact that the war was all Voldemort’s doing. If he and Neville weren’t alive and born on the days they were, He would have won years ago. There wouldn’t be any reason to fight the students. There would be no reason the murder the children.

Now he feels awful. He shouldn’t have thought that Neville was at fault. He most certainly would not be chosen as the Dark Lord’s equal. Even being born on the 30th, he would still pick the child of a Muggleborn. A _Mudblood’s_ child with a _Pureblooded blood traitor_ is his chosen, not the Pureblood heir to the Longbottoms. 

Although, he wonders how Alice and Frank are doing these days. Just because the battle with Him is over, it doesn’t mean that the couple regained their sanity. He does wish that they at least feel victorious and happy. If they can understand it.

* * *

The Forest hasn’t changed too much. It was still, _well,_ a forest.

Rays of sunlight penetrate the trees and fall into the ground. And as grey as everything is, as dark as it was before, he remembers. The three objects unassumingly involved as the center of this war. That war. Even those of previous centuries.

The trio that gave birth to the brutal murders, familial blunders, and generations of hiding.

The Deathly Hallows.

They certainly look quite _death_ -ly, the appearances of the three. Its individual purposes are _truly_ deadly, he muses.

He remembers himself dropping the Stone somewhere, but he doesn’t really care.

The Wand was still with his other things. He’ll probably use it some other time. Or maybe he’ll return it to its grave. He doesn’t know, and again, he doesn’t care.

There is only one thing he cares about in those three: The Cloak he inherited from his father’s, father’s, _father’s_ , **_father’s_** — it doesn’t matter. This family heirloom is the only thing that matters in his life. It’s his father’s legacy, albeit said legacy is a bit, um, tarnished. Bullying is never right. But at least his father seemed to grow up before his untimely death.

Its shine is still beautiful, and he treasures it so, even if the memories he sees when he clutches the fabric are nauseating. Nothing besides this measly companion of his stayed by his side in the moments where it seemed like everyone and everything has abandoned him. His travels and explorations of the castle were aided by none other than the cloak. He wouldn’t have been able to transverse quietly to his _death_ without it.

The creatures are gone. Well, for now, but there isn’t a single soul in this vast jungle previously inhabited by numerous deadly and dangerous magical beings.

Oh, how he _wishes_ to die.

Huh. He never realized this.

He genuinely does wish to **die.**

The acromantula colony was nowhere to be found, he thinks as he passes by the part of the forest where he and Ronald came to meet Aragog. Wonder what he’s up to. Is he dead? Is he still within the forest, just hiding? The former seems like a much better fate to resign oneself. How does one end up without life anyway?

He can never stay dead. Even though the previous encounters frightened the hell out of him, he still made sure that whatever its outcomes, he accepts his death.

But even now that he wishes for it, there’s just no staying **dead. Always surviving, never living. Never,** never staying dead.

Ah fucking shi—

**I WANT TO DIE.**

That was _wonderful._

Laughter envelops him. Feeling of dread and resignation fill him. Darkness surrounds him.

Distant howls echo across the mud, as growls and chirps of animals engulf his senses. The air is stale and weirdly greasy. **_Blood._** He can taste the metallic sheen of **blood.** But its, perfect, tremendously, **_oh lovely, very lovely_**. Again, and again, and _again,_ and **_again,_** and **again!** Oh how divine!

Ah. Here it comes. 

Hm. Hello? Nothing, huh.

He resumes his venture into the woods. There were many more plants scattered around. A bit of red here, many more of green there. Ooh! There’s some purple and blue over there too. They’re pretty. Wonder what he’ll say when he—

* * *

 _Plenty_ of potions ingredients to harvest. All free for whoever wishes to take.

He misses Hogwarts’ Potions Master.

He misses Severus Snape.

Maybe it’s because of the weird feeling in his gut, but he thinks Snape was important in a way he never knew and will never know.

But, eh. He’s dead. Nothing he could do about it anymore. He isn’t like him who doesn’t stay dead. A normal person dies and doesn’t come back to the world of the living.

Still, it seems peculiar. Intuition was never his strong suit. Something amiss. There’s buzzing.

Why?

**OH WeLL, iT’S quiTE, uHm. Yes.**

Yes.

Continuing his walk, he feels something stuck on the sole of his left shoe. He tries to step and carve it out to no avail. He begrudgingly sighs to himself and bends over to look at it.

Ugh. It's gross.

Why is it here? Is _it_ this way? He has so many questions, but he just doesn’t want to be bothered with it. It is odd to feel the object on the sole of his shoe. He just lets it be.

Moving towards the tall, tall trees, he finds a small opening into one of the larger trunks and decides to take a break.

He sat down inside the hole, leaning his back against the eerily warm wood. There is a sense of acceptance and comfort within this tree. It was calming in a way he never felt before. The species and specifics of this tree escapes him, but he doesn’t mind. It’s perfect. It’s _home._ He props his head to the side to lean on it. Exhaustion follows him into Morpheus’ arms.

* * *

Blue. That’s all there was in this, this _weird_ , uh thing? Oh, there’s some grey! And, pinkish white.

Why?

Snickering, he reminds himself that he never knew why, and will never know why.

But then, how?

This, he didn’t know. _Shockingly, ha._

The shadowy greys, and magnificent blues, and horrific whites still surround him in this cocoon of warmth and wariness that slowly morphed into delight. It beckons him to come closer. And he does. A right hand reaches inside a newly formed orb of light situated right in front of him. The tips of his finger approach a powerful vice. **_Intoxicating. Powerful._ MINE.**

And he wraps his fingers, palm, and subsequently his hand around the greatest piece of wood, from the greatest tree.

Why? _Why is **it** here?_

He pulls it from the light, and a wave of dizziness shakes him.

He awakens from his adventure, if he could even call it that, and sighs. Everything is confusing the hell out of him.

Huh. Another _weird_ scene.

Why is everything such a cause for confusion these days? The answer, he will never know.

* * *

The voyage towards Avalon and/or Camelot was surely that of fiction (right?). But the path he takes crosses another. He passes the woods and reaches a river. There is no bridge. Instead, he uses **_it_** to conjure one. Its ornate structure would make even Malfoy envy his skills in design, the pompous brat that he once _was._ He isn’t a brat anymore. He’s a piece of shite, yes, though not bratty. The bridge looks wonderful still. Made up of wood and metal, the railings are secure and safe, the deck thick and supported, and the foundations are dug into deep within the waters. Beautiful, it is _beautiful._

He walks upon it and trips out of nowhere.

He’s embarrassed. (It really is embarrassing.)

Thankfully he doesn’t have any spectators to this, adorable(?) fail. Just the breeze, the objects, and the bridge are his current escorts. 

_Stop._

Why?

**Stop.**

He cranes his neck side-to-side to look for this, uh, this wisp, voice. Uncertain it was even real; he resumes his walk to cross the bridge. It was a beautiful bridge, with the best of views. These views do seem a bit out of place. Why is the arch of this bridge so high? It feels more like walking up a hill rather than crossing a simple bridge. Ha, it wasn’t simple, it was intricately beautiful. Why has he been saying beautiful repeatedly for the past few hours?

Has it been _hours?_

**_Hours?_ **

He’d been walking around for hours in this Godricforsakened forest?

Wait, the wisp. Where is the wisp?

Looking around, he spun in circles, he felt like riding those _carousels_ , not that he’d know how it feels. Fucking Dursleys and their ‘normal’ household. He never fit in with his Aunt’s family. He never saw them as his. He had nothing in his first decade. But now, he has Hogwarts, or does he?

**No.**

No?

**_No._ **

Why not?

_Simply because it isn’t. Home is here, not there._

Simply mad. Crazy. He thinks he’s lost his mind, not that it isn’t plausible, and HIGHLY probable.

Visions? Check.

Hallucinations? Check.

Madman attempting and succeeding to lure him out of Hogwarts into the Ministry of Magic using his godfather as hostage? Check.

So, he may be going a tad bit, for a lack of better word, utterly unhinged. It doesn’t help that he’s currently hearing a _wisp, voice._ But still managing to be removed from everything.

Peculiar. Yes.

**Yes.**

And there it is. What even is this? A monster of some kind maybe? The muggle Boogeyman? He doesn’t know. He never does.

_Then you’ll know. W **e’**_ **ll** _let you **know.**_

What, there’s more of it? The suggestion doesn’t sound that bad. It is a bit. Freaky. Hm. The voice is very raspy and deep, who wouldn’t want to cover themselves in it? It might be nice to lay down on a soft mattress slowly getting comfortable as this voice lull him into a warm, calm sleep.

_You are bizarre, **האדון שלי.**_

What?

**How amusing you are,** _내_ _주인_ ** _._**

****

He understands the fact that he’s weird, but the last words that the voice utters, it feels familiar, much like the sense of home that he once felt with Hogwarts. But it isn’t simply that.

**_Of course not._ ** **It is so much more.**

How can this _wisp, voice_ be so much more than Hogwarts? Hogwarts had been his home for the better part of his life. Nothing can compare to it.

_But is that really it? Do you not wish for something **more, aking panginoon?**_

****

There is no _more_. He doesn’t believe it, not in the slightest. He’s content with what he has. He wants nothing, he only needs.

**The need for, the thirst for, the hunger for the truth. Is it not warranted?**

But why would he need the ‘truth’?

He’s already done what he must. The war is over.

**_It is. It is. But the war is not and never was the main subject of the truth. The truth is_ ** **far from the war.**

The suspicious voice is, frankly, tiring. He just wanted to take a walk in the forest. Instead, he converses with the _weirdest_ thing. What even is **_he, or it?_**

****

_Well, milordiness. I am, **We are,**_ **death. In the _simplest of_** _terms._

No. Nope. Definitely not. He hasn’t been conversing with the final obstacle, the mere reason for his unending life. No. just, no.

**Then you are in for a treat,** **मेरे** **मालिक.** **Let us explain.**

 **You have gathered the Hallows. _My,_** _our, wonderful set of creations. And because of such, as the gatherer, **you are dubbed as the Master of Death. Ours.**_

****

Yours.

_Yes, yes, yours. **Always and forever, yours. Please,**_ **tell us your needs. We wish** _to fulfill your wishes._

He thinks wildly to himself. This _death_ will not leave him alone. No matter what he does, it’ll be there, waiting for an order, waiting for its master. He knew this would happen. He just kept ignoring it. He has everything with him, and he still thought it wasn’t true.

Because who would? Nobody has ever become this. Nobody has ever gathered them. Nobody but **_him._** He has done it. He’s the gatherer of the infamous Deathly Hallows, and now he’s speaking to **_death._** If he could do something, he doesn’t care, nor does he mind.

Even with the evidences laid in front of him, he just couldn’t believe, he will never believe. These _objects_ are just so unnecessary.

He wishes to **_die. Can they do that instead?_**

****

**Oh, but we wouldn’t want that now would we.** _The uncovering of the truth must be done by you, Господарят ми. **No one, but you.**_

****

Bloody hell. He doesn’t care about the truth! It can stay covered for all he cares about, and there’s barely anything that he does care for!

_Not even if it refers to your upbringing?_

**Your horrendous and arduous life as a slave?**

**_Your unfortunate circumstances in relation to these ‘blood wards’?_ **

What?

**Yes, your highness.**

**The truth is not within the war.**

**It is within _you._**

Rubbish. This lying rubbish. Full of Hippogriff dung, that’s what it is. There is no way.

NO WAY.

_Oh, but there is. It is what you think. **It most surely is.**_

****

~~I, I cannot believe you. I will not believe you. Never. Never believe.~~

**How about we show you then?** _It is fairly simple to bring you back. Do you to be **right when it started, or just before everything began to fall?**_

****

~~I could go, yes. I could, but do I want it?~~

_Of course you do, my master._

~~Then I will.~~

**_Then we shall depart urgently. They’ve been looking for you. They’re very near._ **

****

A hand reaches out to the substance that enveloped him in the duration of this disturbing conversation. Another hand follows, and he feels the pull. He walks towards it, feeling his upper forearms vanish; his feet are slowly engulfed in the light. It covers his mouth, then his nose and ears, then his eyes.

He is blinded.

He is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is, again, a trial and error book. It's the first time that I attempted something like this. I hope that I can complete this by my birthday on October, or at least by the end of 2021. Have a good day and thank you for reading this~!


End file.
